


The Hushmage’s Ideal

by Darkrealmist



Category: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: Apocalypse, Card Games, Character Study, Despair, Dominaria (Magic: The Gathering), Elves, End of the World, Fantasy, Gen, Inspired by Art, Magic, Melancholy, Monsters, Parallel Universes, Post-Apocalypse, Puns & Word Play, Science Fiction, Survival, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, War, Wizards, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: The tale of a wizard whose hushed whispers touch an unsuspecting, shattered world.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	The Hushmage’s Ideal

The Hushmage’s Ideal

Author’s Note: Wrote this nearly fourteen years ago. Enjoy the story and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of _Magic: The Gathering_.

Card Reference: <http://gatherer.wizards.com/pages/card/details.aspx?multiverseid=111076>

Summary:

The tale of a wizard whose hushed whispers touch an unsuspecting, shattered world.

* * *

She awoke joylessly to the sounds of unquenchable thirst and squalid hunger that morning, the moans and cries of hundreds upon thousands beneath storm-battered, hastily pitched shelters meeting the torment of a new day.

Further and further they sank into folly and darkness, yet some said the damned would be saved from their damnation. “Divine intervention will occur” or “Just you wait and see” were the general evangelical arguments, but she believed these were merely religious slogans sputtered by zealots trying to resuscitate their long-dead faith.

The root of the problem was simple and dashed any traces of hope in her heart: Time was up. All things had to come to an end, and that period was dawning. For centuries, civilization had struggled on Dominaria. Ravaged by ancient thrashing tides, hit by cataclysm after cataclysm, and enduring the onslaught of constant wars pushed the plane _over_ the brink of apocalypse more than once. Time was not on their side…Indeed, it was, in fact, promoting a slow and painful death.

As she rose from the cold, calcified floor – stiffened and riddled with crushed pebbles, dried bones, and snapped, leafless twigs – she willed her ears to close off to the outside world. Within seconds, every utterance, lie, chant, and prayer was forced from her eardrums in a rush not unlike that of a river flowing into the open ocean. “Cushioning the impact,” so to speak. In this state, she was deaf to the noise that otherwise unceasingly made itself clear each waking moment of her existence. She was finally at peace, or at least as close as she could get to it without going under the dirt herself, a prospect not at all comforting either.

Kneeling over a collapsed portion of the entrance to her cavern hovel, she collected some muddy water in a small basin from a hole in the wall. Although she could be called one of the “lucky ones” for having any access to fluid sustenance at all, she was forced to ration what little could be harvested, as there was no guarantee the supply would last indefinitely. As such, she restricted water usage to its bare drinking necessity. By now, after having lived in the same cave for seven arduous years, she was absolutely certain she smelled worse than an anurid murkdiver.

It really made no difference given the rest of the survivors smelled the same or worse. It seemed like the only species thriving since the onset of the temporal chaos tearing apart the plane were the thallids, sentient fungi that quickly propagated themselves via “sporesowing,” and the elusive slivers, which she understood to be highly adaptive creatures sharing a hive mind of sorts.

The sun was in the process of surmounting the horizon just as she took a sip of water. It tasted foul, but she continued downing it, fatality being the depressing alternative. Still, death was a welcome temptation on occasion.

After emptying her cup, she set it on a rock and peered beyond to the wastelands below the cliff atop which she currently resided. Clouds were hovering in front of the sun, forming a tight cage around it that rendered the star bleak and grey amidst a dusty yellow haze. Any luminescence that managed to penetrate the smog was instantly devoured by jagged mountain peaks; spires curved inward, as if to hide untold lurking horrors, mutilated orphan-monsters of the Cabal definitely among them.

It was a sad sight. These lands were, in the past, alive with healthy trees and wildlife, the elegant chorus of nature itself. All that remained now was danger and decay. Mould crept onto the last structures of settlement, transforming them into ruined parodies of their former selves. Drought reaped the earth, and growth of vegetation became impossible as a result.

Time was up. The clock had stopped ticking, and with its halt, doom was assured.

The plight of the world suddenly resounded before her, louder than ever. Her spell had worn off.

Each twisted tale of melancholy suffered anywhere came knocking at the gate, a haunting echo. Her head pounded with throbbing persistence. Her neck was on fire. She had trouble breathing, and the strain caused blood to pool in the center of her brain. Her heartbeat jumped, and she could feel her grip on reality loosening.

Her vision spun, the ground beneath her feet melted away, and vibrant colours bombarded her from every direction. She saw herself as a young girl, a scene playing across the wilderness, an overcrowded cemetery, followed by the expressions of agonized soldiers as they braved the desert. Images were flying at her at such an incredible speed, she had no opportunity to interpret them. The delirium was relentless.

The most hellish of sounds implanted themselves in her memory, and those she had already witnessed made a frightening return. Metal scraping against metal. The whine of constructs as they fell on top of their creators at expiration. Malnourished elves and beasts swept up in a hurricane. Bitter autocrats inflicting wounds upon their subjects with the crack of a whip. Oh, how deliverance would be the greatest gift!

Index finger to her lips, it was silent once more. From her other hand, clenched in fist, stemmed a concentrated burst of blue mana, awash with mental energy. Her breaths became less rapid, and her focus was gradually restored. Pausing briefly, wavy black hair cutting across the opaline skin of her face, she uncurled her fingers and allowed the raw magic a chance to evaporate into the coarse stifling air.

Open her ears, and the flood would resume.

At that moment, she remembered wise words bespoke prior to her training.

 _Trade secret #1 of_ The Voidmage’s Handbook _: You’ve got to learn to block things out._


End file.
